Rear View [Zayn centric]

Chapter 11

He woke up to the sound of his own screams piercing through his ears. Tears rolled down his sharp cheekbones and his chest moved so fast it was painful just to watch. When he observed his surroundings and realized where he was, it didn't get better at all. The room would have been silent if it weren't for his sobs, and darkness was everything that could be seen. Unfamiliarity painted it all and he just couldn't keep his head away from the dream he just had, where he was running away from the voices that kept shouting at him how he could not have the success he was having, how he wasn't good enough and how tired his bandmates were of him.

He got up from the bed and walked to the balcony of the room, lighting a cigarette once he was outside. The city lights from LA were so bright that he even felt ashamed for being in that very place, so far away from his home. That first cigarette was followed for another one that occupied his left hand while he wrote on his old notebook with his right hand. He was so frustrated with himself, too tired to sleep and too awake to look for company, he didn't know what to do. It was too early to call his mum and he didn't feel like talking to the boys lately, so he was left alone with himself all over again. He was getting used to it, to his own company, but sometimes it was exhausting. It drained him when his mind wouldn't shut up when all he wanted was a bit of silence or how his screams would be loud enough to wake him up from his slumber, like it had happened just minutes ago. He was so fucking worn out.

While he kept glancing at the lights in front of him he decided that he wasn't going to go to bed for what was left of the night. He still could hear the voices from his dream shouting at him – who had gone blank in the middle of a concert, and couldn't even think of a single lyric –, his mates looking at him like he was gone mad and the public booing him to no end, with all their signals about him being a terrorist or asking him to go back to the his country still fresh on his mind. He could feel the anxiety in every fiber of his body, rising on his throat, upsetting his empty stomach, clouding his head and making his hands tremble and sweat just by thinking.

They had just come back from their little break before the album was released and he was sick again. He tried to remember the short time he spent with his family during those past weeks, how he felt able to eat something because his mum's food was just so good he couldn't help it. He had stayed until late talking to Waliyha and Doniya and he had taken Safaa to the park and walked her to school several times. It felt so good. He also had the opportunity to be with his baba, who he had watched all the bollywood films of his childhood with.

Now the emptiness was filling it all and he couldn't do anything but hold onto his mother's words, trying to remember how she was the only one capable of warming him enough to cry on her shoulder and tell her that he wasn't happy. That he felt like he was dying every fucking day before every fucking concert and he couldn't keep going anymore. And she just listened, running her fingers through his black locks, while her own tears streamed down her face without any kind of control. Because before he said anything, she knew. She could see it, and beyond that, she was feeling it on her own bones. She had eyes to see how thin he was becoming and she could hear him roaming through the house during the night when his sisters were asleep and he thought that so were his parents. But she wasn't. She felt as restless as him, but with a mix of both, culpability and impotence – because she had awakened him that morning, but she could not take it back nor even ease the pain his sonshine was feeling –. So, the nights that he couldn't sleep, she would wake up to make some chai and wait for him to tell his truths, to smile at her or to tell her the stories or the news among the guys. She waited for him to release some of his burden on her shoulders, but he couldn't do that to her mum and she knew it. And it only made everything more painful.

There were other nights, when she'd wake up to the sounds of muffled cries or spine-chilling screams that made Safaa cry too. And those nights were the worst, because there was no way to hide what was happening to anyone. There were no quiet talks about feelings or secret tears that were only meant to be shared between mother and son. Those nights the entire family would wake up with their hearts breaking on their chests, because the sounds that came from Zain's throat didn't even seem human, but a cry for help of an injured animal, sounds close to the ones that makes a soul leaving its body. And the worst part, was waking him from those nightmares. They had become so real – or was it his reality that turned out into a nightmare? – that no matter how many times they'd cry his name, the screams would never cease.

So, on the one hand, Zain was alright with leaving his home because he felt like he was destroying it; but, on the other hand, he felt like he was being destroyed by being far from that very home. He found himself lost again in that paradox, the same paradox that was stealing him all his sanity lately. Because he wanted nothing but to leave, and leave was the only thing he couldn't do. He couldn't go to his parent's house in that state, but he couldn't stay alone on his own either. And, the most important fact: he could not leave the band in the first place. Not yet, at least.